


Of Life And Death And Masks And Revolutionaries

by DictionaryWrites



Series: Patron Minette Week 2013 (1-7 Dec) [9]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 16:06:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1072453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire/Enjolras and Claquesous/Montparnasse suicide comparative. Obviously do not read if you’re going to be triggered or otherwise upset by talk of suicide and suicidal thoughts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Life And Death And Masks And Revolutionaries

Enjolras was drunk. He was more drunk than Grantaire had ever seen him, and sprawled across the table next to him at the very back of the Corinthe, his cheek pressed to the wood of the table before them and his hand clasped loosely around his bottle. Grantaire made no comment on this latter, for he knew that the feel of glass under one’s fingers could be a better anchor than anything else.

"Do- do you know, Grantaire-" Enjolras sat up suddenly, hair flung about him as he looked to the brunet. Grantaire found himself enchanted by the other man’s eyes, seeing all the more wild in the dim light of the Corinthe. He did not know why Enjolras had chosen to sit with him that evening, sit with the drunkard he despised, but he felt blessed for the other’s presence, drunk or not. "Do you know," Enjolras laid his spare hand on Grantaire’s chest, regarding him seriously, and Grantaire considered its weight over the cloth of his clothes, and had to make an effort not to close his eyes.

”I once considered suicide, you know, but then I thought-” Enjolras made a dismissive motion with the bottle, the gesticulation clumsy. “Why bother? I shall involve myself in the revolution, and someone else shall do it for me, and it shall  _count_  for something!” Grantaire stared at him.

“ _What_?” No other admission from those pretty, pink lips could have caused such confusion in Grantaire, and he regarded Enjolras with concern and with bafflement, his green eyes rapidly running over Enjolras’ form as if to look for some clue as to how to proceed. “Why ever would you want to kill yourself? You- you are  _perfect_ , Enjolras, you are an angel among men, you are brilliant and you are bright and you are the light of my- of  _life_.” Grantaire stumbled back quickly, and the blond might have caught it usually, but now he was intoxicated, and Grantaire was grateful.

Enjolras laughed, and the sound was somehow merry whilst still being cutting to Grantaire’s very soul. “I am not perfect. I am awful.” Enjolras said finally. “I do not care for other people’s feelings, and I am curt, and I hurt people, and I am arrogant and I am  _naive_ -” Enjolras laughed again, this noise yet harsher than the last. “I am not an angel, Grantaire, if anything, I am a sinner cursed to live a second time. But no, I can  _do_  something, Grantaire. I am of little worth alive, but if I throw myself into the cause, then my life will count for something.”

Grantaire ached. He wanted to throw his arms around Enjolras, kiss his face and pet his hair, and tell him that he loved him, and that he was far from worthless, and that he should never kill himself, but Grantaire would never believe such words, so why should they work on another man with the same considerations of death’s embrace?

"The others?" He said finally. "Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Feuilly, Bahorel, all of them. Do you believe them to be worthless?" He did not as if Enjolras thought Aimé Grantaire to be worthless: he knew the answer to that query.

"No." Enjolras said quietly, in a such a religiously solemn tone that Grantaire nearly embraced him then to cradle him closely, for such melancholy was one thing to hear in his own voice, but in Enjolras’? A tragedy. "And nor are you." He said this as seriously as the other words, tightening his hand on the shoulder of Grantaire’s waistcoat, and he swayed.

For a ridiculous moment, ridiculous and wrong and irrational and silly, Grantaire thought Enjolras might kiss  _him_. 

"But here we are, my good man, drinking our sorrows away, for sometimes good men sacrifice themselves for better causes. Even if I am not that-"

“ _I_  am not that.” Grantaire argued. “You-“

"Please, Grantaire, hush." Enjolras plead, and Grantaire dropped his words. He reached for the bottle Enjolras held and took his hand from it, firmly interlinking their fingers and holding Enjolras’ tightly - for all the anchor a bottle could be, it never quite compared to a human touch. "Will you sacrifice yourself should the barricades rise?" Enjolras asked, and that question seemed laden with an odd, desperate curiosity as he gazed upon Grantaire’s ugly face. His hand was warm and clammy in Grantaire’s own, and the brunet rubbed a thumb over its back, ever-gentle.

"I will." Grantaire answered.

"For the revolution?" Grantaire shook his head. He might have laughed, another time, but for now he could not muster the humour, even to mock. And he could not mock Enjolras, not when he was like this.

"For you." He said, and Enjolras threw himself forwards, dropping Grantaire’s hand to wrap his arms as tightly around Grantaire’s neck as he could manage, clasping the other man as if letting go would allow Grantaire to disappear forever.

"You are a good man." Enjolras said firmly, and he pressed a solid kiss to the side of Grantaire’s face. "You are a  _good_  man.” Grantaire had not the heart to protest, and instead he held Enjolras tightly, trying to pretend the words he was saying meant something, trying to pretend this embrace meant something, and that they were not the products of a young man’s intoxication. 

It hurt. All things did bar brandy and wine, these days.

—-

Montparnasse was languid where he sprawled on the bed, comfortably surrounded by blankets and pillows and sheer  _warmth_ , his pretty, slender limbs looking nothing short of art where they spread across the lovely cloth.

Claquesous regarded him, his mask firmly in place. At this point, just after the act where they were both shining with sweat, the room smelling strongly of sex and of cock and of lust, Montparnasse could almost pretend he would take off the mahogany, set it aside, and sleep alongside him.

He knew that would not happen, but the fantasy was pleasant enough.

He abhorred this life. He hated not being able to see Claquesous’ face as he wanted to, hated not getting his way, but the thought of snatching at the mask, of attacking Claquesous, or doing anything similar, was a worse idea, because it would mean the end of this, lying next to Claquesous in the dead of night and pretending.

He hated everything else. He hated having to steal his clothes, hated that the lining of his coat always tore and needed replacing, hated the rising prices of flowers and of fabric and of  _shoes_ , hated that all his clothes were threadbare even if they were pretty.

It wasn’t  _right_. He saw too many ugly men and yet more ugly women in the prettiest of charming garments, and what right did they have to them, when Montparnasse’s face was actually handsome,  _suited_  to a look of aristocracy? Why should Montparnasse have to go without bread some nights just to wear a carnation at his breast, when others had  _everything_?

His cock was spent, his arse a sore thing, but the ache in his muscles was a good one, because Claquesous appreciated Montparnasse when they were in bed together, and said the things Montparnasse knew were true and wanted to hear again, and he made Montparnasse feel wanted. Montparnasse might not believe this latter was more than fabrication, but like he said before: what was the shame in fantastical indulgence now and then?

He did not know what struck him to confess. He only knew that he needed to, and he needed to do so now. 

"I thought of taking my life myself one day, you know, when I was still a very young man." Montparnasse whispered into the darkness, the only light a dim sliver of a thing hinted on the other side of his curtains from a flickering street light - enough to see the glint of light off Claquesous’ mask, and little else. Montparnasse was, in truth, still a young man, but he hadn’t been a  _very_ young man for two years or so. “And then I thought, why ever do that? No one wants me in this idiotic society, but I shall live the life I choose, and surely someone shall do the worst deed for me. And yet I am still here: what a funny occurrence!”

Claquesous saw no humour in the situation. Montparnasse choked as Claquesous caught him with a strong grip by his hair, pulling him close and making the boy release a soft whimper, one hand uselessly laying itself on the other man’s chest, where red hair distinguished the skin. The other man did not hurt him as Montparnasse thought.

He leaned and bit at Montparnasse’s lips, then at his jaw, and then at his neck, where he sucked a large mark - large enough, and high enough, Montparnasse thought, that his highest collar would only barely hide it.

"You are mine." Claquesous rasped into the darkness, and Montparnasse took in a desperate, hurried little breath at the words. "Your life belongs to  **me**. And should anyone try to take it, God help them.”

Montparnasse was still and entirely stiff, and then he melted, sprawling across Claquesous with all the affection of a young kitten. The older man dropped his hold on the black, silken locks as Montparnasse moved to cling to him, pressing kiss after kiss to his chest and to his sternum.

Montparnasse had never considered Claquesous as a  _comforting_  presence, but here he was everything, and now Montparnasse felt safe, and wanted, and he relaxed entirely. What an odd thought - that society should not take care of him, but that a masked beast of the darkest night should.

Claquesous’ large hand spread wide across the pale, marble expanse of Montparnasse’s back, feeling the skin beneath his fingers. He thought of Inspector Javert, and the report he would have to give tomorrow morning, of the crimes committed by the Patron-Minette that week,and tried to think of a path that would allow him to keep this boyish, slender monster of the darkness when his placement as informant ended, and he had to rejoin the force as a guard under a real name -  _Maurice Fabron_. 

No path lit itself to his attention, and Claquesous nearly allowed himself a sigh. Instead, he tugged gently at Montparnasse’s hair, sliding from beneath the boy’s spidered limbs and moving from the bed to retrieve his vetements. “Will you allow me a glimpse of your face?” Montparnasse whispered the question. “One day? I would do anything.”

"I will meet you on the Rue de la Chanvrerie at 9 o’clock tomorrow evening." Claquesous said, and then he was gone. Montparnasse pulled the blankets over his head to fantasize of what Claquesous’ face must look like beneath his mask.

One day, perhaps Montparnasse would see. One day.


End file.
